With 3 boys under 5, there’s never a dull moment. Certainly never a quiet one… Buggy Blogger mum to J (4), B (3) and S (1) is wrong-footed on a shoe-shopping expedition.

Parenthood is full of amazing little mysteries.

Like, how many times in one day can a 3-year-old ask 'why'? What's in a yoghurt that can transform a roomful of boisterous kids into reverential silence? How come children's stories sound better read out in Scouse? What prompts little boys into innate 'brmm, brmmmm, brmmmm'ing with toy cars? And how come kids' shoe sizes aren't standardised?

This week I finally relented into getting B's feet measured for summer sandals. In one shop they were a 7½. In the next a size 9. How does that work then?

While I was trying to fathom out the discrepancy – had he eaten a plate of Popeye's spinach between shops, got his foot squashed by a passing motorist or put on 3 extra pairs of socks when I wasn't looking – B was working on a strategy to get the best return on this tediously boring shopping excursion.

Because when we arrived at the next shop he pulled out all the party tricks. Firstly we had a severe attack of floppyitis. Then there was a prolonged burst of bellowing. Followed by a black frown and … clever this one … a blank refusal to lay off sitting on his feet. In short, he pulled out all the stops in order to delay proceedings while the bribes-for-good-behaviour haul heaped slowly up.

Grandpa would've been proud to watch as he wound the young Scandinavian shoe-fitters round his little finger. Though he wouldn't let them near his feet, he had them eating out of his hand. Before we left he'd managed to blag a complimentary packet of jelly beans, a large yellow balloon, a bean-bag and a cuddly toy. Actually the cuddly toy's a lie but had he've pushed a bit harder …

And while Birgitta disappeared out back in search of extra sweeteners, I hissed stern entreaties to pull his stockinged-feet socks up, pledged a nee naa station fly-past if he'd only stand up straight like Fireman Sam, and promised a big-boy outing to the café for cake if he could just try acting like one. (A big boy, not a cake)

When all that failed I resorted to that tried and tested parenting technique, a rather desperate 'Oh … please?'

Fortunately that did the trick … or he just got bored … because I finally shoehorned him into some half-decent sandals (size 9 if you're asking) which felt at this stage like a giant leap for Motherkind. I paid up double-quick and shuffled red-faced out the shop. That certainly showed who was boss then didn't it?

Then as if to add insult to injury the moment we stepped outside the sun vanished and, quicker than you can say 'puddle-soggy besandeled socks', the hot spell was over. And it seems to have been bucketing it down ever since.

Hmmm. Now that's what I call a mystery, bewildering to parents and the rest alike; the Great British Weather.

• The next Buggy Blog will be on Tue 6 June 2007
  
  
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